


Chamomile

by DameRuth



Series: Flowers [18]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), The violence technically takes place in a nightmare/memory but I tagged it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: After Jack's return, Ianto has a nightmare -- but Jack's the one that needs comforting. (Set somewhere around "Sleeper" in S2)[Continuing the Teaspoon imports, originally posted 2008.04.13.]
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Series: Flowers [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/14017
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	Chamomile

**Author's Note:**

> Ianto's "dream" has been stuck in my mind for a while and since I'm in a somewhat grim mood right now, it seemed a good time to type it up as a break from some of the other stories I've been working on (yes, yes, the "Flowers" Easter special, which will be 100% Jack/Ten, for those who prefer that pairing - *cough*wmr*cough*). ;) I wasn't even sure this'd be a "Flowers" snippet, but then Ianto gave me a perfect flower-based title in a line of dialogue, so I figured, "What the hey?" However, this contains no references to the rest of the series, and should stand alone and/or socket into canon; it's more like an honorary member of the Flowers sequence . . . ;)
> 
> * * *

Caught between dreaming and waking, Ianto struggled towards consciousness; anything to be away from the dream, away from what would happen next . . . But it was like fighting through quicksand, or glue.

“Ianto!”

The sound of a familiar voice speaking his name broke in from the outside and quick as that he was awake, the dream gone like a bubble bursting. Gasping for air, Ianto stared up into Jack’s face, completely disoriented for a moment. Then reality sank in: he was tangled in the sheets of Jack’s bed, soaked with sweat. And naked, though that went without saying. Jack, fully clothed, was balanced on the edge of the bed, the palm of one hand pressed hard against Ianto’s shoulder, holding him flat on his back. The room was dim, no light but the reading lamp on Jack’s small private desk.

Jack waited a moment, staring into Ianto’s eyes with piercing attention. Then he nodded infinitesimally and relaxed the pressure holding Ianto down. “Nightmare, huh?”

Ianto swallowed and nodded, finally getting his breathing under control. He still felt dazed. _That_ dream again — the one he’d started getting shortly after Jack’s disappearance. He’d thought it had finally run its course, but clearly he was wrong. He closed his eyes, inhaling the subtle musk-and-spice scent of Jack’s skin. Still hard to believe that was natural, though Jack swore it was a byproduct of fifty-first century genetic engineering. All Ianto knew for sure was that he’d never managed to spot a bottle of cologne or aftershave in any of Jack’s toiletries. The familiar fragrance, warm and real, slowed the pounding of Ianto’s heart faster than even the realization that he’d been dreaming.

“Looked like a bad one,” Jack said, voice going gentle. No longer restraining, his hand drifted up to massage the angle of Ianto’s neck and shoulder. 

“It was,” Ianto said, voice rasping slightly. He swallowed again and relaxed into the reassuring touch.

“Would it help to talk about it?”

“No,” Ianto said, eyes still closed, already starting to drift back towards sleep. “It’s a silly dream, really. You’d laugh at me.”

“ _Would_ I?” The undercurrent of amused interest in Jack’s reply jarred Ianto back to wakefulness, and he cursed himself, silently. He knew that tone of voice — he’d piqued Jack’s curiosity, and now no force on earth would divert that unstoppable impulse. One way or another, Jack would worm it out of him. Best just to give in quickly — after all, what could it hurt? Jack would have a laugh at his expense, then he’d as likely move on to a kiss or two — or more — and that would be the end of it. 

Ianto sighed. Without opening his eyes (the better to avoid Jack’s inevitable glee until the very last moment) he began to describe the dream.

“It’s me, and Gwen and Owen and Tosh. You aren’t there.” Ianto frowned slightly. That aspect of the dream hadn’t caught his notice before, oddly enough. “I don’t know where you are. Anyway, it’s somewhere with mountains. _Big_ mountains, not like the ones around here — like the Andes or something. It’s just after sunset, at least down where we are, but the tops of mountains are all lit up still. Beautiful, really.” Not something he’d ever noticed when he’s been buried deep inside the dream, but he could see it now. 

“We’re out looking for something. We’re staying at a village, and they’ve been saying there’s something out there, something that’s been taking people. They’re all scared. We’ve said we’ll help. We’ve been looking for a long time, and haven’t found anything. It’s getting cold, with the sun off us. Gwen and Owen are in the lead, me and Tosh following. We all have our guns out, but there’s nothing there.”

Ianto paused for a moment, surprised at how vividly he could picture it all in his mind — the way the thin air made his chest feel tight, the fading buzz of adrenaline, the crunch of gravel under his boots, the gnawing chill starting to fill the air . . . He realized he’d fallen silent and continued. He hadn’t intended to give so much detail, but once he’d started talking the words just kept flowing.

“Owen’s getting annoyed — he’s complaining about superstitious, under-educated villagers, and Gwen’s telling him he’s a culturally insensitive twat and he’d better shut up because if there _is_ anything out there, it’ll hear him. 

“Then there’s this . . . thing in front of us. Like a metal basketball, just floating in the air. I could swear it came out of nowhere. We all stop, and before we can do anything, it sprouts blades all over and goes for Gwen. Owen shoves her out of the way, and it slices him across the neck. Blood everywhere, and he goes down. Gwen catches her balance and lunges back towards Owen — to pull him out of the way, I think. She’s between me and the ball. All of a sudden this blade just sprouts between her shoulderblades, and then vanishes again. She starts to slump down.

“Tosh is shooting, over and over, and she’s hitting it, but the bullets just ricochet. I can hear them. And . . . I’m just standing there, useless. It’s only taken seconds, but still . . . The ball moves past Gwen even before she’s finished falling. It’s floating towards us like it has all the time in the world. There’s blood dripping from it.

“It’s like I wake up — not for real, I mean, in the dream — and I grab Tosh’s arm, tell her to run. Then we’re bolting back down the trail towards the town, and I know that thing is right behind us. The path gets narrow, and there’s a drop-off. Then the ground gives way, guess it wasn’t very stable to begin with, didn’t help we were running on it. We go sliding and falling along with what feels like half the hillside; I try to grab Tosh’s hand, but everything goes . . . blank for a moment. 

“When I come back to, the dust and rocks are still settling, so I can’t have been out for long. I look around, and there’s Tosh, off to the side, half-buried under rocks, just like me. I can see her face, and she looks like she’s unconscious, or worse. I yell her name, but I can’t get free to reach her . . . then the ball is there, only there are three of them now, all covered in blades and spikes, and I know what’s coming next, and all of a sudden I’m glad Tosh isn’t awake. The balls just drift towards us, and I swear they’re giggling, like insane children. That’s the worst part, really. I’m screaming, even though nobody will hear me, but it’s better than listening to them laugh . . . and then I wake up.”

Ianto sighed, quelling a residual shiver, and waited for the teasing to begin. Awake and safe in Jack’s bed, the dream didn’t have anything like the power it did when he was asleep. It was an unusually _coherent_ dream, but it was ridiculous. When would they be in the Andes? Not to mention the metal balls. _Giggling_ balls. Jack would no doubt have a field day making bollocks jokes and Freudian dream interpretations.

Except that Jack was silent, uncharacteristically so. Ianto risked opening his eyes.

Instead of the lopsided, teasing grin Ianto had expected, Jack looked . . . stricken. Ready to cry, practically. “Jack, what . . .?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Jack whispered, voice rough and lost-sounding. “Ianto . . .” 

Then they were embracing, despite the awkward angle. Ianto wasn’t quite sure who had started the gesture, and he didn’t particularly care; most of his brain cells were working on the question of just what the hell had got into Jack. How could someone else’s gory-but-implausible nightmare affect him that way? He wasn’t even in it.

_Oh._

Ianto silently cursed himself again. Jack still felt guilty about leaving Torchwood Three to their own devices for as long as he had following his disappearance, even if he hadn’t said so in quite so many words. And while Ianto hadn’t really thought about it before, what he’d just described was a classic abandonment/anxiety dream. Jack not there, the team getting killed by something they were hunting — that was bound to hit some of Jack’s sore spots. It didn’t help that Jack was still recovering from whatever he’d been through. Guilt and trauma made a bad combination.

Jack refused to talk about what had happened during the months he’d been gone, but Ianto knew for a fact that it hadn’t been good. Jack was showing all the post-traumatic symptoms of someone back from an exceptionally bad field mission. Ianto had worked at Torchwood long enough to be very familiar with the signs, in others and himself. The very fact that he was here spending the night in Jack’s secret cubbyhole was related. Jack had made it clear since his return that he appreciated Ianto’s presence at night, even if Ianto spent most of the time sleeping while Jack sat nearby, reading or working on a laptop. It was all about not wanting to be alone.

So, Ianto began packing an overnight bag a few nights a week. The benefits ended up working both ways — this was the first bad nightmare he’d had experienced in a long time, and he had an extensive library of them. They started with Lisa, and worked down from there. At their worst, he’d been going through three or more nightmares a night. Not when Jack was around, though.

Jack snuffled in Ianto’s ear; he _was_ crying. Given how cold and pragmatic Jack could be on-duty, he wore his emotions surprisingly close to the surface at other times. It was one of the many fascinating puzzle-contradictions that attracted Ianto to him. You never knew quite what was coming next with Jack around, and he could turn the tables in entirely unexpected ways. Like now — somehow or other, Ianto found himself being the one offering comfort for his own nightmare.

Since he couldn’t think of anything useful to say, he settled for rubbing Jack’s back while making soothing noises in his throat and letting Jack hold him as long as he needed to.

When he could feel Jack’s tension easing, Ianto remarked, “You know, I think a cup of tea would be just the thing right now.”

Jack laughed at that, as Ianto had expected. He didn’t let go, however. “You British,” he said, sounding as if his nose was still plugged, though his tone approached normality. “It always comes down to tea, doesn’t it?”

“Frequently,” Ianto admitted. “You want some?”

Jack finally released Ianto from his tight embrace, and held him at arms’ length for a moment. His eyes were red, but the grin was back. “Depends. What kind’re you making?”

“This time of night? Chamomile.”

Jack blinked at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. _I_ need my sleep.” Then to counter Jack’s faintly appalled expression, Ianto added temptingly, “I’ll add honey.”

Jack snorted and released him, reaching up to unselfconsciously wipe his eyes with the back of one hand. “Oh, all right. Chamomile with honey it is. But if you ever tell anyone else I drank it, you’ll end up in a drawer.”

Ianto rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with chamomile. My gran used to make it all the time when I couldn’t sleep. She said it was good for keeping off colds and nightmares.” 

He shifted his weight, and Jack moved to let him wriggle free of the sheets so he could stand. Ianto didn’t bother with clothes. Being on intimate terms with Jack was a fast way to get over any body-consciousness issues one might have, at least when it was the two of them alone. Besides, Jack would appreciate the view, and it might cheer him up a bit

“That’s supposed to make me feel better about my tough-guy image?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow, and the grin was wider this time.

Ianto stretched, pretending to ignore the way Jack’s eyes followed every move. Jack liked a little tease now and then. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever met my gran,” he shot back, heading for the ladder. “Five foot two and she could make a grown man cry, if he gave her cause.”

Jack laughed. “I can picture that, actually. Ianto . . .” his voice dropped to a purr. 

“Yes?” Ianto paused, grasping one rung of the ladder.

“Bring the honey jar with you when you come back.”

“Right.” Ianto couldn’t help smiling back. Gran was right — chamomile and honey was just the thing for nightmares.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=20836>


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